by T F Muir
‘Sorry, Andy, it’s fucking loony tunes down here.’
‘Now you’ve called,’ Gilchrist said, ‘can I ask how well you knew Fox?’
A pause, then, ‘Is that why you were getting your arse grilled?’
Gilchrist frowned. Not the answer he’d expected. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘Never met him before.’
‘I thought he was one of yours.’
‘No, Andy, sorry. With Clean Out about to break, we were on a need-to-know basis. Thought I was going to be read the Official fucking Secrets Act. Piss takers, the lot of them. No, Fox was sent up from London, some secret branch of some special department that had links to some other special fucking unit in Europe and Christ knows where else.’
‘He was a plant?’ Gilchrist said.
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘And another way?’
‘Sacrificial lamb.’
Gilchrist stopped mid-step, mobile hard to his ear. He turned his back to the bar and faced the cobbled street. ‘Fox was dispensable? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘You didn’t hear this from me, but Fox was more than dispensable. He was on their list of suspects right from the fucking off. If they hadn’t shot the bastard when they did, they would’ve hung him out to dry for the rest of his natural. Fox was on the take, and in so deep he didn’t know how to get out. He was toast, one fucking way or the other.’
An image of Fox’s body being blasted into the garage wall, his chest exploding with blood, seared into his mind. Was that how the government of White and Winter terminated employment these days? Assassinate you, rather than go through Human Resources? He felt a surge of anger flash through him, and gritted his teeth with frustration.
But it was no use. ‘Ah, for fuck sake,’ he said.
‘Andy?’
‘I don’t know, Dainty. I’ve just about had it up to here.’ He took a deep breath, let it out. ‘What’s the point of it all?’ he said. ‘I used to think we were nothing more than numbers on some bean-counter’s spreadsheet. But now I realise we’re just a herd of simple scapegoats, being led to the slaughter house to be disposed of as others see fit, and to take the blame for someone else’s cock up.’
‘Fucking hell, Andy. You need to cut the psycho-babble. It’ll do your nut in.’
Gilchrist let a chuckle slip from his lips. ‘Yeah, I guess. But you were trying to reach me. So what’s new?’
‘You’re going to love this,’ Dainty said. ‘Maxwell turned up an hour ago.’
‘You found him?’
‘Well, mostly.’
Gilchrist closed his eyes. This was what he wouldn’t miss when he retired, news of blood and slaughter and all things gruesome. ‘I’m listening.’
‘I thought I’d seen it all,’ Dainty said. ‘But I tell you, Andy. There’s some crazy fuckheads out there.’
Gilchrist tilted his head back, stared at the sky. Shepherd had got his revenge, he was sure of that. A shudder shivered through him at the memory of big Jock’s hateful words – when I take that cunt out by Christ he’s gonnie suffer like this – the way his finger stabbed the photographs of his men who’d been killed by Maxwell and his team. God only knew what Maxwell must have suffered. But his brain was barely capable of interpreting Dainty’s words, a flow of verbiage so brutal and sickening that his mind couldn’t take it all in …
‘… found in a barrel … dumped in waste ground … wood-chipper used … nothing left, the lot … I’ve seen thicker soup … don’t know what the world’s coming to …’
Even then, his subconscious caught something out of place. ‘An hour ago, you said.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So no time to run DNA tests on … on …’
‘That’s right.’
‘So how do you know it’s Maxwell?’
‘They left photos – before, after and during the mincing process.’
‘Jesus …’
‘It’s him, all right. Poor fucker. Oh, and one other thing,’ Dainty said. ‘They also left a one-way ticket to the Philippines. Looks like you were right, Andy. He really was leaving the missus to rot.’ Dainty coughed, a hard clearing of his throat. ‘We’re trying to keep the details away from the media, for obvious reasons.’
‘Has anyone picked up Shepherd yet?’
‘This is where it goes fucking haywire. It’s hard to believe, but Shepherd’s lawyers pre-empted his arrest by filing a claim against the force for harassment. I think they’re just trying to keep him out of jail until the bastard dies.’ Another cough. ‘And once he does, fuck knows who’s going to take over.’
Gilchrist had heard enough. He thanked Dainty – although whatever the hell there was to be thankful about, he couldn’t work out – then he hung up. He slipped his mobile into his jacket and pushed through the doors to the Central Bar.
The ambience hit him like a kick to the chest – the background din of the lunchtime crowd; the rambling chatter of people talking, laughing, placing orders; the scraping sound of stools shifting; the sharp clatter of cutlery and plates chinking – everybody going about their business oblivious to the human slaughter taking place in the criminal underworld.
He found a stool at the end of the bar, and had to turn his face away from the heady smell of cooked food being served at the table behind him. He ordered a Fosters, lighter than a real ale, just looking for something cold and refreshing. But when he placed the pint to his lips, he caught sight of a couple at the other end of the bar spooning soup, and it was all he could do to make it to the gents in time before he bent over the sink and threw up. With not much in his stomach, he spat out bubbles of bile as he splashed water over his face.
Outside in College Street, he stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and headed back to the Office car park. He would maybe call Smiler from home, tell her he wouldn’t be in for the rest of the day, make an excuse that he was coming down with something, the flu, a cold, it didn’t matter. And maybe he’d follow up with her tomorrow as well, tell her he was going to take Friday off, too, be back in the Office next Monday. And during that time off, when he’d had an opportunity to reflect on his life, past, present and future, he’d sit down and draft his letter of resignation.
As he turned into North Street, he smiled. He should have listened to Jack. He’d told him often enough that he was spending too much time at the Office, that there was more to life than just work and more work. Jack would be pleased to hear that he was chucking it. In fact, he should be the first person to find out about it.
He retrieved his mobile, and dialled Jack’s number.
‘Hey, what’s new?’
Despite Jack’s cheery opening, Gilchrist sensed an underlying sadness, as if Jack was trying to put a face on bad news. ‘Fancy a pint?’ he said, then remembered Jack was on the wagon. Well, except when it was his birthday.
‘Can’t. We’re just about to leave.’
‘Heading out for the day?’
The line fell silent for several seconds, then Jack came back with, ‘No, Andy. We’re moving. To Edinburgh. Me and Kristen. She’s got a flat there.’
‘That sounds like lock, stock and barrel.’ He forced a chuckle down the line, but even to his own ears it sounded false. ‘Where are you at the moment?’
‘Mo’s.’
‘Is she back home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, stay put. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’
He hung up before Jack could object.
CHAPTER 49
Gilchrist would have been quicker walking to Maureen’s.
By the time he found a parking space and skipped up the steps to her flat in South Street, fifteen minutes had passed since his phone call to Jack. Maureen surprised him by meeting him at the door, and giving him a heartfelt hug.
He buried his lips in her hair, and whispered, ‘How are you keeping, princess?’
‘I’m fine, Dad.’ She stepped back from him, tucked a loos
e strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Jack couldn’t stay. He said a friend was giving them a lift to the station.’
‘Leuchars?’
‘I think so.’
He paused for a moment, then said, ‘I thought Kris had a car.’
Maureen offered a grim smile, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Dad. Jack said he’d call you when he and Kris had settled in.’
Well, there he had it. Jack had now resorted to excuses. He followed her inside, and found himself searching for evidence of male presence – Derek for one. ‘Jack said Kristen has a flat in Edinburgh. Does she own or rent?’ Not that it mattered. He was just trying to find something to say to cover his disappointment.
‘She owns it, I think. All hers. Used to be her parents’.’
‘She inherit it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Only child?’
‘She’s never mentioned any siblings. So, maybe.’ She walked into the kitchen, and said, ‘Would you like a tea?’
‘Sure.’ He nodded as he let his gaze drift around her kitchen, as if searching for words to say. It surprised him how much it stung, Jack’s departure without even a goodbye wish or a handshake. He never thought he would think it, but it would be lovely to give Jack a high-five and receive one of his shoulder bumps. An image of Jack leaving the Central Bar hand in hand with Kris came into his mind. Had he said something wrong? But whatever it was, he couldn’t remember. He would need to ask Jack the next time they met.
Or maybe it would be best just to say nothing.
He placed his hands on the kitchen sink, gripped the stainless steel edges, and looked out of the window. From there, he couldn’t see the sea over the rooftops, but the horizon had a hint of blue, as if the clouds were thinning and the sun would make an appearance before the end of the day.
‘Are you all right, Dad?’
He turned to find Maureen eyeing him with concern. ‘I’m fine, sure.’
‘You look tired.’
‘You got me there,’ he said. ‘I’m knackered. This case has done me in.’
‘It’s been everywhere on the news for days. Is it over now?’
He didn’t want to say anything about Maxwell’s wood-chippered remains being found in a barrel. Or that the case was far from over. You didn’t kill police officers and expect them to drop it in a hurry. And the media would eventually learn the details of Maxwell’s demise. So, no, the case wasn’t over now. But it was for Gilchrist.
He smiled at her. ‘I’m thinking of retiring.’
She set the teapot down. ‘Thinking of, and actually doing, are two different things.’
‘I’m going to hand in my letter of resignation in a day or so.’
She smirked at him. ‘You written it yet?’
‘Not quite.’
‘See?’ She handed him his mug. ‘Here’s your tea. Want a biscuit?’
‘Any Kit-Kats?’
‘Have a break …?’
‘Have a Kit-Kat.’ He chuckled at their old one-two act, from a TV ad years ago. Did they still run that ad? He couldn’t say. He watched Maureen reach up to open a cupboard, her sweater sliding up to reveal a waist that was still whippet-thin. Ever since a life-threatening event a few years ago, she had become upsettingly thin. Not quite anorexic thin, but not far from it.
‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘A couple left. Have them both. I never eat them.’
‘You just buy them for your favourite dad?’
‘Of course.’
She picked up her mug and walked through to the front room, and he realised he was supposed to follow. She sat in an armchair, leaving him with the sofa. He flopped into it, and waited while she tucked her legs up, made herself comfortable.
‘So what’s brought this on?’ she said. ‘Thoughts of retirement.’
‘Getting old.’
‘You don’t look it.’
‘But I feel it.’
‘Jack’ll be pleased.’
‘Surprised, more like. Did you know he was leaving for Edinburgh?’
She shook her head. ‘First I heard of it was about an hour ago.’ She took another sip of tea while he nibbled a leg of his Kit-Kat. Then she said, ‘I’ve taken your advice, and made an appointment with the doctor for next Tuesday.’
He sensed she was trying to direct the conversation away from Jack, but he decided just to go with the flow. He could phone Jack any time. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘as I’ll be retired by then, I can take you there.’
She chuckled at that, and changed tack again. ‘Would you like something to eat? A sandwich? Tuna and tomato with some jalapeño peppers? Your favourite.’
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You talked me into it.’
Her hand brushed his as she slid from the armchair, and he watched her as she walked through to the kitchen. She was still too thin, way too thin. He needed to talk to her about putting on some weight, maybe even take out a subscription for the gym, work with a trainer and bulk up somehow. If he was retired, he could even go along with her. He picked up one of her magazines, browsed the pages, his eyes scanning the articles, his brain taking nothing in. The flat felt warm, and he plumped up a cushion as he rested his head against the back of the sofa, for just a moment …
A phone rang.
He came to with a start, surprised to see Maureen seated next to him, watching the TV with the sound muted. The curtains were drawn, and the room glowed with a mystical yellow from lighted candles and a lamp set in the corner. The spicy fragrance of potpourri swamped the air.
Maureen reached for the phone, lifted the handset. ‘Hello?’ Her whole being seemed to still for a moment, then she pushed to her feet and walked to her bedroom.
Gilchrist made his way into the kitchen, neck stiff, muscles hurting. He filled a glass from the tap, and took a long drink. The clock on the microwave displayed 7.34, which had to be the evening, surely. Had he been asleep for the best part of six hours? Force of habit had him fumbling for his mobile, which he found in his jacket hanging over the back of a chair.
He couldn’t remember powering it down, but he switched it on to find he’d missed six calls, four of which were from Jessie. He was about to return her calls when Maureen came out of her bedroom, the tightness in her lips warning him that all was not well. He thought it best to say nothing, but she returned his gaze with welling eyes, and he found himself saying, ‘Problems?’
She shook her head. ‘That was Derek,’ she said. ‘We’re finished.’
He didn’t want to offer a joke about not knowing they’d even started. Instead, he walked towards her with outstretched arms, and she fell into him as the tears flowed. He said nothing, just held her, let her sobbing diminish her anger and her pain.
When he felt her recover, he stood back. ‘Are you all right?’
She sniffed, nodded, dabbed a hand at her eyes. ‘What is it about men?’ she said.
‘You’re asking the wrong person.’
‘I think I’m asking the right person.’ She held his gaze, and in her eyes he thought he saw a flicker of understanding pass behind them. ‘You’re different, Dad. You know how to talk to women. It’s as if you know what they’re thinking.’
He kept his surprise hidden as best he could, and said, ‘Now that, dear lady, is where you’re wrong. No man knows what any woman is thinking. Least of all me.’
She laughed at that, a sweet ringing sound that he hadn’t heard from her in years. Her eyes sparkled, and she kissed him then, a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Love you, Dad.’
He had to say that he was somewhat confused. Where was her pain of only moments earlier? How could she go from tearful hurt to carefree happiness in ten seconds? Before he could work it out, he was saved by his mobile ringing – ID Jessie – and took the call.
‘Where have you been?’ Jessie said.
‘Writing my letter of resignation.’
She laughed at that. ‘Aye, sure, that’ll be right. Write mine when you’re at it.’
‘No, Jessie, I’m seri
ous.’
‘So am I,’ she said. ‘Listen, you’re needed here. Someone tossed a brick through the Office window a couple of hours ago—’
‘I can give you the number of a glazier I know.’
‘Very funny,’ she said. ‘The brick was wrapped in a pair of these wee skimpy thongs you wouldn’t see me dead in. Victoria’s Secret. Red.’ A pause then, ‘And covered in blood.’
Gilchrist found himself staring out the kitchen window, into the dark of night. ‘That doesn’t mean anything.’
‘We got a phone call from the university early afternoon reporting one of their students missing. She never came home from a party last night.’
Gilchrist turned from the window and walked into the lounge. He didn’t need to hear this. He was going home to write his letter of resignation. He was through with the job. Why hadn’t Jessie listened? He glanced at Maureen who was watching him, concern etched across her face—
‘She’s only nineteen,’ Jessie said.
Something tugged at Gilchrist’s heart.
‘Her parents are besides themselves with worry.’
Maureen smiled at him then, as if she could read his mind, understand his dilemma. Something in the way she looked at him – her thin build, as slim as a teenager, her wide eyes still reddened from tears of moments earlier – struck him. Where was he when she had been nineteen? How would he have felt if his teenage daughter had gone missing, with signs that something terrible might have happened to her?
‘Jessie, listen.’ He tried to hide from Maureen’s gaze. ‘I … I …’
‘You should go,’ Maureen interrupted.
‘But …’
She pressed a finger to his lips to silence him. ‘I love you, Dad. You know I do. But your job comes first. It always has.’
He shook his head. ‘But I need—’
‘At least for the time being.’ She smiled at his confusion. ‘You can write that letter of resignation later. Go,’ she said, leading him towards the door. ‘You’ve got another case to solve. I’ll still be here when you come back. I’ll even help you draft it.’
